


Lessons and Parallels

by archea2



Series: Old Tales Twice Told [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Harry Potter - Freeform, Humor, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a quarrel with John, Sherlock decides to stay home and read Harry Potter.</p><p>Written to fill a prompt for "Sherlock as a literary nerd".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons and Parallels

"So how are Sherlock and you dealing with the SMH?" Lestrade had asked in the course of their choke-a-beer session, adding he'd be glad to lend John a hand if required. It had taken another bitter and a sudden lull in the constant ola of cheers from the footy corner for John to grasp that, no, the DI wasn't trying to talk him into a bit of triangular rough play.

"The Sunday Morning Hurdle," Greg explained patiently. "Took us four years to jump it, and that was before I got into djembe. Very relaxing, djembe, but the missus said it interfered with her Chi Gong. So I told her, June, I said, the djembe isn't  _noise_ , the djembe is a cultural heri —"

"Gotcha," John cut in, knowing that Greg was prone to wax lyrical on behalf of the djembe after his third pint. "We, ah, we're doing fine. He's out most of the time - boxing or fencing, and God knows I envy him the vim. I stay home, read a book." Great. Now he was sounding like some aggrieved Hausfrau. "Then he comes home, and we slap up some food, and he shoots, ah, the time away, until it's tea-time and news-time. No problem here."

Lestrade clapped twice, slowly, and John gave him a rueful grin.

"Fine, fine. Sunday mornings lack in home entertainment, but we get on."

"Tell you what," Lestrade said, summoning the bill with a practised sleight of hand. "Next Sunday, he and you are trading places. I have two tickets for Arsenal and, man, some arse they'll be kicking, let me tell you. He can stay home and read a book for a change."

* * *

"But you can't go out!"

Sherlock looked, if anything, like an eight-year old being told that his birthday was reassigned to February 31 by State decision. He crossed his arms and glared.

"I thought we'd both stay home today. I need you to check on Mrs Hudson's home compost – it's hosting seventeen toxins that should be mature for analysis any time now. Asphyxiation by compost is tomorrow's mastercrime, John."

"Too bad." John slipped on an extra jumper, keeping an ear out for Greg's car. "You'll just have to babysit them yourself. Quality time, Sherlock. You've had plenty this winter, if I recall."

"But you won't be back before one!"

"So play the violin! Ask Donovan to take you fishing! Or if you want some home practice, what about the Strange Case of the Disappearing Potato Peeler? Even better – read a book for a change!"

Even as the door shut him out, the look on Sherlock's face left John with an uneasy pinch in his chest. He spent the next four hours trying to emulate Greg's hearty cheers – ("does wonders for your lungs, the djembe – you learn to vocalize as you play") – but couldn't help wondering if Sherlock, meanwhile, was busy blowing up 221B with compost fumes in retaliation.

* * *

It lacked a quarter to one when Lestrade left him on a slightly sore-throated invite to come over and share the missus's shepherd pie. John took advantage of the sore throat to excuse himself and re-enter the flat with a cautious step. He was more or less expecting a welcome committee made up of half-dead larvae, sulfur, high nitrogen and Miss Bacteria 2011.

Instead, he was greeted by the rich scent of chocolate, wafting down from the top floor.

Blessing Mrs Hudson in his heart of hearts (as it uttered something suspiciously close to a gurgle), John walked up the stairs, tugging at his vest. The door to their common room was ajar, and he pushed it to a crackling and humming that came from their fireplace.

"Oh," Sherlock said, never lifting his head. "I'm afraid I've just poured myself the last dregs. There's that pack of six you left in the fridge, if you're thirsty."

John was no longer thirsty. Or hungry. He was, if anything, experiencing the condition once summarized by one Bertie Wooster as "The mind, it boggles". For there was his flatmate half-tucked, half-spread on the couch, one leg stretching lazily onto the floor and the other crossed at the knee. A steaming mug of cocoa stood on the coffee table; a book lay open on Sherlock's upper thigh; and Sherlock himself wore cordoroy trousers that looked the thinnest, slimmest, stretchiest fabric known to have hugged a male groin since Adam's fig-leaf. North of the trousers, he wore a black turtleneck. As far as John recalled, it was the first time he had seen Sherlock in anything that wasn't open-necked. It made him look slightly older, rather impregnable and dead sexy.

Of course, the older look might have come from the thick, black-rimmed glasses now riding Sherlock's elegant face.

Or wait, was that the sexy look?

"One of mine?" John asked, pointing to the book as he crossed over to the couch and flopped down. He felt as if he had piled on six layers of lambwool instead of one. Sherlock nodded, fingers playing a light tattoo on his thigh as he bent his head to the page. Damn that fire, why did it make cardigan buttons so slippery ?

The book was a thick hardback, with a faded red and yellow cover that...looked familiar.

" _The Order of the Phoenix_?" John's gaze slid to the floor, where six other books were lying haphazardly. "You've read the whole saga in five hours? "

Sherlock hummed vaguely, reaching out for a sip of chocolate. John watched the soft full lips nudge at the rim and found himself moistening his. "Any good? " he asked hoarsely.

" _Very_  good." The sexy boggler's voice, when it came out, was all cream and darkness too. John gazed on, entranced. "In fact, her deconstructionist take on the father figure is quite  _zeitgeistlich_  - I can see how it would tease your inner Badiou." Sherlock had taken off the glasses and was waving them about, letting one of the branches tap against his lips. The lips parted, and the branch was sucked in slowly, tantalizingly.

"My bad me," John repeated faintly. There was only one Rowling-esque thought in his mind, and it was that most of his blood seemed to have Apparated into his groin. He pulled the cardigan swiftly over his lap.

A slender foot brushed his knee: Sherlock was shifting closer to where he sat. "Hmm-ah", Sherlock breathed out fervently, fitting the glasses back on. "But I'll grant you that adhesion to the generic code, in her case, does supersede the plurivocity of meaning. Take her portrayal of friendship, for instance. "

John nodded vigorously. Here was a sentence that made sense at last, and might take his focus away from his burgeoning hard-on. He no longer trusted himself to speak.

"Sirius Black and Remus Lupin", the deep creamy voice went on. " _Such_  an interesting pair. Do you know, John, I find that Remus is really my favorite character. The man unafraid to face his scars and fears. The warrior, the protective friend. The truly significant other to Sirius – bright, mad, uncontrollable Sirius, a star trailing a black vortex in his fall. Doesn't he remind you of someone?"

John's mouth opened on a soft plaintive noise.

"In a book, I seek lessons and parallels", Sherlock whispered, drawing himself closer to the edge. "I seek new ways of looking at the familiar, John, and a new urge to act on what I see. "

"And what are you seeing?" John husked, letting his hands tumble from his lap as a long finger, leaving an open page, touched the curve of his cheek.

"Mmm? Ah, you'll have to ask me again at tea-time." Sherlock, back to his natural brisky tones, shook off his glasses with a neat jerk of the head and jumped off from the couch. "My, is it half past already? Mrs Hudson's asked me over – home-made lasagna, I believe, and there's the compost to check. "

"What? But wait, wait — you can't just —"

But Sherlock was sauntering off, shoving hands in his corduroy pockets. John vocalized quickly and copiously, borrowing a few of Bill Murray's prize expletives. Then went to check the fridge. Sherlock, as ever, had been right. The fridge held a pack of six beers. It didn't hold anything else.

John sighed and stepped out on the landing, resigned to eat humble pie before pasta.

Only when Mrs Hudson opened her door did he realize that he was clutching the oval glasses to his heart.


End file.
